Only One
by Orpah
Summary: There can only be one representation of a nation. When Romano is chosen, and Italy is slowly fading away, what will Germany do? M for swearing and character death


Well, I had this idea for a dark fic, and well, I guess you'll just have to be the judge of whether or not I did well.

Kind of OOC, depending on how you look at it. Nations have been known to be ruthless, after all.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

A dark chill hung over Italy, and it would not be abated, not through medicine, not through rest, not through painstaking attention and care. He was pale, paler than nature had a right to make him, and with every frail smile and clouded look, Germany could feel his heart tear, like a human hand clawing right through the thick muscle.

He was a ghost of a country, but with soft breaths and feeble movements, far more than Germany's lost half would ever have again. His eyes were frequently shut, but not with the smiling creases that belonged there. Germany trailed a hand through the locks, inadvertently pulling a few more clumps off the balding scalp, and stopping with another painful twinge in his chest, not wanting to do more damage with his large, clumsy hands.

Never skilled at nursing, he cursed himself for it now, wishing he could trade all his military might just for the tender ability to make a dying man's last hours bearable. For that was what it was; Italy's last hours upon this earth.

It had finally come down to it: there could only be one Italy, one representation of the Italian people, the final completion of unification. Germany had seen so many German states fade away like the mists of the night, giving their culture to him and making him strong. It had been foolish for him to think that it was a thing of the past, belonging in a musty old text somewhere, commemorating the deeds of the former nations.

Italy Romano was the one that would stand the test of time, and as survivors and their family must ask themselves, why was it them and not the other? Why Romano and not Italy? Italy's lands encompassed great monuments to their people, he had art equal to anything an angel hand could produce, the rich, delicious food of his people fed the stomach as well as the soul.

But there could only be one, Germany's mind echoed, a flash of eyes, red as a garnet, filling his mind before anguish took its place once again. He would stand by himself, a rock alone in the howling wind of the world. He had no other confidant, there were no others to stand by him or take his hand. With Italy would die the last laurels of friendship, the ultimate prize in his life. He took Italy's bone thin hand, a violent tremor going through his lip as he felt a weak grasp back.

"Ve, Germany?" The voice was soft, with both affection and unadulterated weakness. The roughened pad of Germany's thumb stroked along Italy's fingers, as Germany fought to keep composed. "Yes, Italy?"

"When… When I'm gone…" Italy was trying harder to grasp his hand now, Germany could feel it. Looking into Italy's eyes now would break him, he was sure, so despite the fact they were open, he didn't look into them. He wanted to tell Italy that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn't promise it, he couldn't bear to see those eyes filled with shock and confusion at the end. He closed his mouth with more force than necessary, squeezing Italy's hand tighter.

"You have to make… s-some new friends, okay?" Italy's voice wavered, and Germany knew he had to meet those eyes, the ones that conveyed happiness so well. Tears, reflecting and trying to hide the real emotion in Italy's eyes, were what met him when he looked. His heart pushed up his throat aggressively, trying to stop him from talking, from trying to console his best friend about his impending departure.

"I will," he choked, and his eyes began to blur, even as he blinked rapidly to try and keep them clear. This shouldn't be happening, but it was an inherent law: there could only be one. Why not Veneziano, the one he loved, who loved him back full heart and soul?

The more Germany thought about it, the more the great injustice of it all tore at his very soul. Italy was life and happiness, the joy of a summer rain mixed with the brilliance of a rainbow. Romano was bitterness, his very soul fashioned from the gnarled roots of a diseased old tree. There was no logic, no reason that he should live and Italy should die.

Germany gently stroked Italy's hand, lulling the invalid gently into a soft slumber. It was one thing he had learned how to do, after all this time, the smallest of things he was able to do. Italy's eyes twitched under his eyelids, like he was being forced to watch his decline over and over again in his head. It wasn't just, that he should suffer like this.

Getting up silently, Germany went to go check his medicine schedule; passing did not come painlessly, but this time he'd known to prepare. All of the intravenous medicines were in the next room over, as was most of the equipment; it was the best he could do to pass Italy on to the next life.

The door shut with hardly a sound; Italy might get some desperately needed rest. He was like a small baby now, sleeping so many hours of the day, and only part of the night. Germany shuffled across the hall, smoothing back his unkempt hair with one hand as he tried not to think on how infantile Italy would become in the next hours or days, how helplessly he would look up at Germany for help he could not give.

Injustice of this magnitude surely meant some oversight on the part of God. It was clear, there could only be one, but why must it be the worse one? Distracted by his thoughts, as he began to wash his hands in the tidy little kitchen, he was startled by a half of a body colliding with him.

"Watch where the fuck you're going, potato bastard!" It was the all-too-healthful form of Romano, cheeks plump and rosy, skin practically glowing. It was unfair, almost hellishly so. Germany felt a great growl building up in his chest. How could this brusque, foul-tempered being not only survive, but _thrive_ while the saint upstairs died a painful and slow death?

"Why the hell are you staring at me like that?" Romano had stopped where he was, light clothing taunting Germany with how much Italy had to bundle up, just to keep from shivering, never mind being truly warm. His frown was really a grin, pride at being able to make it in spite of being the unworthy one.

Germany took a step forward, towards Romano, feeling the unfairness pressing down upon him and reminding him how useless he was, like a watering can in a drought. Heat began to build in his face, as he ground his teeth, hands itching to feel that healthy flesh twist and break in his grasp.

Romano glared at him, spitting out, like a spew of acid, "If this is about my fucking brother, it's not my fucking fault!"

It was his fault, for existing, for daring to take his brother's immortality! The urge to tear, to break, became too much, and Germany nailed him straight in the face, feeling the crack of his nose under his fist.

A wail, like that of a puny demon deprived of its prey, entered Germany's ears, and he seized the hated face, driving it backwards until it connected solidly with the wall, and then, despite bloodied claws gripping at his wrists and hands and the immense hellish screaming, he pulled back and drove his fist into the face, again and again and red, so much red, it clouded his mind until all that remained was the solid, mindless thump of bones striking bones.

The howls were gurgling to a stop, the cracks were hitting his brain as hard as the metallic smell, but the smell was red, his mind was red, the world was red. He kept pushing, and hitting harder, and the hard surface broke like heavy plaster beneath his fist.

The fingers released their hold on his arms, leaving a bloody trail as they slid down. Germany slowed, until thought came back, and he stepped back, heaving. Releasing his hold, he watched the still form slump forward, head streaking blood on the nice wooden floor. Some relief flooded his system, while a barrier seemed to be in place between hi s heart and his head. It was only fair.

There could only be one.

/AN/ So, yeah, creepy? Good? Sucks like hell? I kind of went out on a limb on this one, so feedback is much appreciated! Especially critique of the action. I don't think I've ever written a murder before…


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